I feel all your beady little eyes on me, waiting for the next blog post…gah! I have writer’s block, which means I have nothing witty or worthwhile going on in my brain. You hear that? That’s me rattling my brain around for you. Don’t mind that “ting” noise.

See right there? That was pretty lame. I’m disappointed in myself. My funny meter is headed on a downward spiral. Fast.

It’s been an up and down week. Ending on an “up,” no less, but I’m still recovering from the stress of the “down.” And this will probably make very little sense to you, but I’m just glad to check this week off the calendar, is all.

I’ll post soon. If you have suggestions, lay ’em on me. Otherwise I can probably arrange for an entire one-man symphony composed of brain-tings. Did that even make sense?

All in favor of scrapping this weekly “column” in favor of more interesting blog posts, like what I’m eating for dinner and what’s on television, say “aye.”

Because I’m magical and can hear you through my computer screen, I have heard all 100% of you say “aye” in a chorus of beautiful melody. Please go straight to your American Idol try-out venue because you, my fine readers, have some ah-maazing pipes.

I just complimented you, so am I off the hook?

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***Ok, for realzz – I’m what some might call lazy. I call it “letting my mind relax after a long day at work.” Tomato, tomato. (ha, after I wrote that, I realized that you can’t hear me actually saying the different pronunciations of tomato…I have officially reached an all-time low.) So because my brain is fried every weeknight, I sit staring at my screen when “Tell Me About Tuesday” rolls around. And like days of the week, it tends to roll around every 7 days. And that’s 7 days too soon. So, from now on, my first official law as Queen Bee of this here land that is Blog, Tuesdays can go back to being normal. Phew.

My Aunt Nancy gave me a deadline for my wedding registry because she and my Aunt Jenny are throwing me a bridal shower. Me! Queen for the day! I will rule all the land with my new fancy napkin rings and 600 thread-count fitted sheets. Bow down before my new shower rod, which I will use as my sword to swear you in as a knight.

This is my blog. You never know what I will say.

You knew this when we met, people.

Whoa. Anyway. First and foremost, thanks so, so much to Aunt Nancy and Aunt Jen. I’m still a little bit in shock that I’m having a wedding shower. Mainly because that means a wedding follows. And that would mean this is all actually happening. Again…whoa.

So I started to make a list of items I could use. Towels made it to the top of my list. Because in the past I’ve always cheaped out on towels, so, forewarning, you might want to take out that second mortgage to afford the towels that are going on my list. I’ll co-sign, no worries.

My list is quite practical, save a few items like a table lamp or two. Ok, two. But for the most part, it’s coming along. I think Bed, Bath and Beyond will have the majority of the items and we’ll probably supplement with Target or a department store or something. Damn you Bed, Bath and Beyond for having everything! I can’t just register at one place, but…can I?

The list making and the picking out of pretty things is not the hardest part of this though. The hardest part is the notion that I’m basically writing up a big ole’, itemized list of “wants” that I then assume my guests will go out and buy for me. It’s weird. And it feels a little…selfish? Egotistical? Indulgent? I know this is how the whole wedding thing works, but I feel like I should include a post-it note that pops up when someone prints out my registry list. It’d say “Sorry! Seriously, I won’t be mad if you want to buy me the $3.00 oven mitts instead of the duvet cover! Please don’t judge me by the more expensive things on the list! See you at the wedding!” If the post-it note could have a sound effect it’d be “Eek!”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to pick out lovely plates that I will eat my minimally-varied meals off of. And pick out beautiful pots and pans that Tony will totally love and I will admire from afar. But what do you do when you get 3 sets of your plate when you register for 8? Is that what most couples spend their wedding money on? Can you tell I’m new to this? (I can hear you muttering “Greenhorn” under your breath. And to that I say…you bitches!)

To leave off on a more serious note, can’t I just make this whole thing a lot easier and register for candy?

So we’re plugging along here with these Tell Me About It Tuesdays. Thanks to all of you who comment. I truly, truly, truly enjoy reading your answers to the questions, so keep ’em coming! Capeesh?

Uncle Jesse moment. Nice.

Anyway, without further ado, I present you with the question of the week. Hold onto your hats, people.

What Is Your Very First Memory?

I thought this would be an interesting question to ask because we all have snippets of clear memories from when we were very, very young. To answer for myself, I have two that are fairly clear. And because my inner timeline is out of check, I’m not sure which came first. So I shall present you with both, dear readers.

The first memory is of standing on a rough patch of grass near our gas meter at our Kansas City home. I remember it smelling a little of dog poop because I believe my parents let our old dog Midnight poop on the little hill near the meters. I vaguely remember pretending the gas meter was my candy truck and mumbling to my little tag-a-long brother Kyle about the different types of candy we were delivering. Loving candy at the age of 3? Doesn’t sound like me.

The other memory is of moving day in Kansas City. Our living room was on the main level above the kitchen, which was located down some stairs. I was eating goldfish crackers and dropping them down to the kitchen floor below, where the movers were working.

It’s funny how memories, even more recent ones, are remembered in little moments. I worked thousands of hours last year, yet every day blends into the next. I imagine, though, that’s how most women have a second child. Because if they had to remember 23 hours worth of labor in clear detail, our world population might be severly stunted.

Like this:

It’s been a few blog posts since I’ve updated you all on the status of how the running is going. I know what keeps you up at night. It’s cool.

Let me start out by saying I feel like a total poser calling it “running.” Actually, whenever I mention it to Tony or others I usually just throw up finger air quotes and call it “run-walking.” Because there’s a whole lot of walking going on. And maybe a few stints of running/panting too.

I’ve been trying to be slow about building my endurance for a crazy long run because I’ve been out and about every day and I can tell my knees are starting to feel a little “what the f, woman?!” They’re used to teetering in cute heels, not smacking pavement repeatedly. So I start running at a certain point and push myself to go a teensy bit farther each time. And when I say teensy, we’re talking mailbox to mailbox. Don’t judge…Damnit, I can feel you judging.

Anyhow, I’ve noticed that the sideaches are much better (in that there are fewer of them) and I’m not quite as winded as I was the first day I tested my skills. I also turn a lovely shade of tomato, which is a little less than MacIntosh Apple. Sorry my color shade examples suck. Anyhow, at least I’m not as worried someone is going to pull over and ask if I’m “ok.” Red faces = bright, neon call for assistance.

So, there you have it. My running update. I appreciate all the advice and comments from my last post. I checked out Google Pedometer, which rocks my world 7.8 richter scale-style because I can now figure out how far I’m running. Which, in my head was a lot farther than what Google told me. Thanks, Google. Really.

I’ve also started tying my keys into my shoelaces because, DUH, best idea ever! Why I didn’t think of that in the first place is beyond me, but I suspect I’m getting blonder as I run in the sun.

I do have one question for everyone. How long does it typically take to start building muscle? I’ve noticed since I’ve up’ed my exercising, my scale number has gone up one (or three!) ticks. What the? Tony tells me I’m building muscle, but I refuse to believe it would affect my weight after 3 weeks. I call bogus! Someone please tell me different so I don’t have to blame the Doritos!

Whoa nelly-cakes. Yesterday I had over 80 hits on my site, but I’m not sure where they came from. So to all you lurkers out there- don’t be shy, leave me a little love in the comment section and say “hi,” cool? I’m friendly, I won’t bite. (Unless you don’t like the Packers. Then I snarl).

Anyway, it’s that time again. Tuesday. Phew, that came fast, didn’t it? And here I am unprepared with a question. Let me quick go to Google. Wait here.

I’m back.

Here it is. The question you’ve waited all week for. All damn week!

What’s The Scariest Thing That’s Ever Happened To You?

Ok, so I asked this question because I want to hear your answers. Because, if you know me, you’ll know I’m probably the most cautious person you’ll ever meet. So no answers like “that time my line broke when I was bungee jumping” from this corner. Which makes any of my answers to this question seem pretty dull.

If I had to choose, I suppose I would go with the time I was in a car accident in bad weather. It wasn’t even a terrible accident, save the fact I took down a traffic light and caused a man to break his finger (on his birthday! I suck!) But, I suppose the “scary” part is remembering that freeze frame memory of the traffic light falling towards my windshield. I remember feeling like it was in slow motion. And I remember asking myself: “Self, how much do you think this will hurt?” Really – I asked myself that. Because in times of crisis I like to assess situations.

Self, if you were to rate this accident on a scale of 1 to 10, what number would you choose?

Self, now’s a good time to get out of the car…true or false?

The accident was bad enough that, to this day, I still am spooked to drive in bad, icy weather. Whenver I have to do it, I arrive at my destination with flushed cheeks and shoulders to my ears. Tense.

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Oke-dokey, let's just keep this in mind. Not to get all police-y on you, but just a reminder that all the writing (and yeah, even the stupid, blabber writing that nobody would plagiarize anyway) on here is mine and can't be reproduced without my permission. Also...please don't go spreading my lovely pictures all across cyberspace either. Unless it's to enter me into a blogger beauty pageant. Then that's a maybe. Ok, lecture over. You can now go back to your regularly scheduled programming.